Jace didn't sleep. He rarely did. Nights like this only reminded him why.
Ezra was stretched out on the thin mattress across the room, his face slack in restless sleep, lips parted, brow furrowed as if even dreams couldn't let him go. Kai had disappeared hours ago, as he always did when silence threatened to crack the walls.
And Jace… Jace sat on the crate by the door, a half-empty bottle of whiskey in one hand and his lighter in the other, the tiny flame flaring up, dying down, flaring again. A rhythm. A heartbeat.
He told himself he hated Ezra's face—too clean, too untouched, even in exhaustion. But it wasn't hate. Not really. It was recognition. He saw in Ezra the same cracks he'd once carried. Only Ezra still had the luxury of fighting back.
Jace hadn't.
Years ago—long before Kai pulled him from the gutter—Jace had lived in another kind of warehouse. One with steel doors and locked chains, where a boy learned quickly that fear wasn't a punishment; it was a leash.
He could still remember the way the floor smelled of bleach and iron, the way shadows carried voices that never meant mercy. He'd been fifteen, maybe sixteen. Time blurred in those days. Nights bled into mornings with fists, blades, and debts he'd never owed.
That was where Kai found him.
Jace remembered it like a fever dream: a door kicked open, men scattering like rats, the echo of boots across concrete. And in the center of it, a figure who moved like precision carved into human form.
Kai.
He'd stood there, calm even in chaos, and for one brief second their eyes had met. Jace, bloodied, trembling, pressed into a corner like an animal. Kai, steady, his gaze cutting through the dark like it already owned it.
It hadn't been sympathy in Kai's eyes. Not pity. But it had been something Jace had never seen before—choice.
Kai didn't have to pull him out that night. He could've left him. But he hadn't. He'd handed Jace a blade instead, a lifeline in steel. Get up. Or die on the floor.
Jace got up.
And from that moment, his life wasn't his anymore. It belonged to the man who'd taught him how to wield fear instead of drown in it.
The flame from Jace's lighter snapped him back. He flicked it shut, swallowing a mouthful of whiskey, the burn crawling down his throat like fire ants. He glanced at Ezra again, resentment biting sharp in his chest.
Ezra was new. Fragile. But Kai looked at him like he mattered. Like he was more than a tool, more than another survivor pulled from the fire.
And that terrified Jace. Because if Ezra meant something to Kai, then what did Jace mean anymore?
He told himself it was jealousy, but the truth was uglier. It was fear. The same fear he'd buried years ago was clawing back, whispering that he was disposable, that Kai's gaze had already shifted, that soon he'd be nothing but another shadow in the corner.
The door creaked, and Kai slipped back inside. His coat smelled faintly of rain and smoke, his movements quiet, precise. He glanced at Ezra—still asleep—then at Jace.
"You're awake," Kai murmured.
"I'm always awake," Jace replied, his voice low, bitter.
Kai leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his shadow long in the dim light. For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Jace broke the silence. "Why him?"
Kai's eyes narrowed. "What?"
"You heard me." Jace set the bottle down, standing. "Why Ezra? You've never done this for anyone else. Not me. Not the others. You throw people into the fire and watch if they burn. That's who you are. But with him—" He jabbed a finger toward Ezra, his voice rising despite himself. "With him you teach. You steady his hand. You look at him like…" His throat clenched around the word. "…like he's not just another piece on the board."
Kai didn't answer immediately. His gaze was unreadable, but his silence only fueled Jace's fury.
"Say something!" Jace snapped.
Finally, Kai's voice came, quiet but heavy. "Because he hasn't been broken yet."
Jace froze.
Kai's eyes were steady, piercing. "You, me, everyone else—they broke us first. Ezra still has a chance to choose who he becomes before that happens. That's why."
The words hit Jace harder than a blade. He felt his chest hollow out, his fingers twitching with the urge to strike, to laugh, to scream.
Instead, he sneered. "So he's your redemption project? Cute. Maybe he'll fix what's left of your soul."
Kai's jaw tightened, but he didn't respond. That silence—again—burned hotter than any insult.
Jace turned away, grabbing his coat. "Careful, Kai. You keep pulling him close, and he'll be the one that kills you."
Before Kai could reply, Jace shoved the door open and disappeared into the night.
Outside, the air was damp, the streets slick with rain. Jace lit another cigarette, his hands trembling now. He hated it—hated the way his chest ached, hated the way memories clawed up when he wasn't looking.
He took a drag, the smoke bitter in his lungs. His reflection caught in a puddle at his feet—sharp cheekbones, shadows under his eyes, scars peeking from his collar. A face carved by everything Kai had saved him from and everything Kai had put him through.
"Scars don't fade," Jace muttered to himself, exhaling smoke into the night.
He tipped his head back, staring at the fractured skyline. And for the first time in years, Jace wondered if he was still loyal because he loved Kai… or because he didn't know who he was without him.
Either way, Ezra's presence was a blade at his throat.
And Jace wasn't sure if he wanted to pull away—or press closer just to see who bled first.